christmas lights
by HeartOfCoal
Summary: he hates winter, and she wants to have dinner. more chapters to come. rated T because of mention of drinking.
1. Chapter 1

**a/u: going to try something new. reviews are always very welcome. more chapters to come.**

"I hate winter," Sherlock muttered, so that only John could hear.

"Why's that?" the doctor asked, rubbing his hands together.

The detective sighed and glanced at the crime scene– he had already figured it out. It was another case of a person faking their own death so that they can start anew. Different country, different name, different people. Nobody knew who you were or where you came from and that was perfectly okay; though, Sherlock wished that they would just tell people they were going away instead of faking their own death, because it was dreadfully cold out.

"It's dull."

"Boring?"

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "Definitely boring."

Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and approached the men. Snow collected on their shoulders, melting after a while from the warmth on their skin. Sherlock tipped his head up to look at the sky; his dark waves falling back, and John noticed how badly he needed a haircut. The sky seemed to go on forever, all one shade of gray that looked like it wound around the whole world like a piece of fabric covering a ball.

"So that's it, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, clasping his hands in front of him. He turned on his heel and threw his words over his shoulder. "Coming, John?"

He followed. The snow was crunchy beneath their step, long strides that John almost had to jog to keep up with. They hailed a cab and John nearly sighed from the warmth of the car. He leaned back into the seat and rubbed his hands together, glancing at Sherlock gaze absently out the window.

"What?"

He turned to John. "What?"

"You've got something on your mind."

"There's always something on my mind," Sherlock said, turning back to the window.

John sighed and watched their neighborhood come into view. The shops were all decorated with red and green fluff; statues of baby Jesus in a lot of windows and out front some of the houses. Snow collected in them, filling their open hands and gathering on their shoulders. If they were people, Sherlock mused, they'd be awfully cold.

"It's nearly Christmas," John said quietly.

"Yes."

"Happy holidays," he joked.

Sherlock turned to him and nearly smiled. "Happy holidays, John."

His phone buzzed again (he tad taken to putting it on silent when at a crime scene) and this time he opened the message.

_I love winter. Let's have dinner._

Sherlock slid the phone back into his pocket and leaned his head against the window. So cold outside. He turned over in his head what to reply (if he ever did) but came up not black, but with too many possibilities.

_No. _Ah, no, too short. Too boring.

_I already ate._ That would make him seem dim.

_Busy. _A possibility. He took out his mobile and stared at the screen for a long minute, but again didn't reply.

When the cab pulled up to his flat, he paid and slid out, nearly running up the stairs to his flat.

_Maybe. _

_ -S.H._

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

"You want to go get dinner?" Sherlock asked later that night.

John turned to him and shook his head. "Date tonight. I promised."

"Ah. With… Mary?"

"Sara."

"Right." Sherlock shifted on the couch, suddenly restless.

He flipped so that his feet were up and his head was hanging down near the floor. The blood rushed to his head and made him dizzy, but he didn't sit up– he could almost hear the snow on the window near his soles.

"What are you doing?"

"Bored."

"You've been acting strangely all day."

"Have not."

"Have too."

When he was afraid he might pass out, Sherlock pulled himself upward and curled up on his side. He closed his eyes and waited for the blood to go back to where it was supposed to be. It hurt his eyes.

John stood and pulled his coat from the closet. "Well, I'll be off then."

His friend didn't reply and he shook his head and left. The door closed just as Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up again, all nervous fingers and racing thoughts. He began pacing and thought about everything he could think to be thought of, but finally couldn't take his clear headed-ness and grabbed his coat as well, making his way down to a pub across town.

Briefly, he wondered if the snow would stop at all tonight. He ever so much hated the cold.


	2. Chapter 2

**a/u: i hope you guys like it because i'm unsure where i'm going with this. ** **in season 3 i realllllllly want a drunk Sherlock. so. bad.** **anyway, happy reading. reviews are always welcome.**

_Pub on the corner of Twelfth and Harrison. Drink?_

_ -SH_

For a moment Irene stared blankly at her phone. After the countless texts and calls going ignored, Sherlock had finally decided to reach out to her. She smiled to herself and opened her closet doors, humming Christmas tunes.

By the time she got there, Sherlock was dimmed from the drinks. His tongue was heavy and his thoughts slow; but that was a nice change from hardly having room for breathings. His head was like an overstuffed closet– sooner or later, something was bound to snap from the weight of it all.

It took Irene a moment to spot Sherlock, and when she did, she didn't approach him right away. She stood back, darkness falling around her in the half-assed lighting, and got a good look at him. Long fingers curled around a short cup– his hair was damp and somewhat ruffled.

He looked so ordinary– if only he knew.

"You know," she said, sliding in next to him, "I took you for more of a wine drinker."

"Why?"

"It's how you look."

Sherlock shot her a wavering glance and drained the rest of his glass before responding. "Looks can be deceiving," he muttered.

"How much have you had to drink?" she asked, singling for the bartender to get her something to drink.

He shrugged and sighed, glancing out the window. His gaze was soft but distant, but Irene could see the gears shifting in his head. Maybe he couldn't turn it off, after all.

"The snow hasn't stopped," he said, his eyes dropping to her semi-damp overcoat.

"Oh, Sherlock, Dear, you're not _really_ going to talk weather on our first date?"

He chuckled. "Date?"

"Isn't that what this is?" Irene said, bringing her drink to her lips.

"Of course not."

"Then why did you call?"

Sherlock turned to her, his eyes lazy and somewhat warm. "Who wants to drink alone?"

"I don't really drink," she admitted.

"Neither do I."

She kicked the foot of his chair. "Liar."

"What gave it away?" he said, putting money on the table for his drinks. His vision was swimming, now, but it was getting to be a little too much.

"Oh, you know, the way your fingers nails are trimmed," she mumbled, and was somewhat surprised to hear Sherlock's deep rumble of laughter from beside her.

For a while they sat and chatted– the little things, even though Irene's curiosity was growing inside of her. When Sherlock planted his elbow on the table and gave her a long, deep gaze, she nearly broke in half because she had no idea what he was up to. She became restless. Sherlock nearly jumped when his phone buzzed.

_Where are you?_

_ JW_

_**Out.**_

**_ -SH_**

****He was startled by Irene's hand on his own; she was warm, like fire, but didn't move.

"Let's go for a walk," she said quietly.

"Sure."

The snow had stopped for now, but left a fragile blanket on the street. It took until Sherlock was out of the pub to notice how all the faces blur together; though it was freezing outside, he felt utterly warm inside. Irene slipped her arm through his (still curious) and they walked down the street.

Sherlock stumbled on an unleveled piece of sidewalk, loosing his footing and tumbling onto the side of the walkway; effectively taking Irene down with him. She landed with a thump on her knees beside him. The snow went straight through her thin stockings and she nearly hissed in pain– but the noise beside her stopped her.

His laugh was deep and unbalanced, as if it were underused. Irene started at Sherlock, one arm thrown over his eyes and snow melting into his dark curls. His chest shook, shoulders bouncing up and down as he chuckled; she swore it rumbled the sidewalks.

"You're drunk," she said when she helped him up.

"You're short," he muttered into her ear.

She could smell him now, all mixes of hard liquor and something else– something deeper and spicier.

"Come home with me." She didn't bother to make it a question– so, so curious.

"If you insist."

"I do."

"Well," Sherlock muttered, words falling like autumn leaves (so very out of his control), "I guess I'll have to come."


	3. Chapter 3

**a/u: happy reading, as always. thank you for the positive reviews. it means a lot– but my laptop is broken and won't let me reply; so just know that i'm grateful. **

When they arrived at Irene's house, the snow had started up again. Sherlock's phone buzzed his coat pocket just as he slid out of the cab.

_Where are you? It's getting late._

_ -JW_

_ I'm aware. Goodnight, John._

_ -SH_

"Does he always keep an eye on you like that?" Irene said, fiddling with her key.

Sherlock shook his head and glanced at the front door, winding his arms around himself. She let them in, putting a finger to her lips to signal him to be quiet. They took their coats off and she let him towards the kitchen– Irene set the kittle on the stove.

The sound of bubbling water made Sherlock tired. He glanced at Irene. When she caught his eye she opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words; Sherlock's gaze was warm, like sliding into a warm bath– she smiled.

"Hungry?"

"No," he breathed, "this is England, Irene."

She snorted. "Are you hungry?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock said, taking a seat near the island.

When she turned around to grab an apple, his gaze got caught on the way her hair was coming unpinned in the back. Irene had dark hair, though, not as dark as Sherlock's, and it was beginning to grow out. It nearly touched her waistline.

She turned around and he adverted her gaze, a blush rising to his pale face.

"What were you looking at?" she said quietly.

"You're hair. It's grown out."

"Keep meaning to cut it."

"Why?"

The question tumbled out before he could stop it; and it surprised Irene, who was about to take a bite from her apple. She gazed at him, then, the shock of his own question still present on his angular face.

"What, can't read it on me?" she joked.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and reached across the island, long fingers catching a strand that had fallen into her soft face. He didn't speak. Irene felt her pulse quicken, just so, and she looked up and caught Sherlock's hazy gaze.

"I hope you don't cut it too short," he murmured. "You look nice with all this hair."

"You think I'm pretty?"

The words were meant to be sarcastic, but Sherlock gave her a drunken smile.

"No."

Irene laughed and moved her head away, her silky strands of hair falling from Sherlock's pale fingers. For a moment he left his hand there, suspended in air, before dropping it to the island. It landed with a small thud. Irene looked down and let her eyes wonder over all the shadows on Sherlock's forearm.

"You always wear long sleeves," she noted.

"It's usually cold."

"Are you tired?"

"What day is it?"

Irene chuckled and slid her hand into the pocket of her blouse, because she had the sudden urge to reach across the counter and lay a hand on his face. He might have seen the desire in her eyes, because he leaned forward ever so slightly.

She could still smell the vodka on his breath.

The clock struck twelve and soft bells floated in from the hallway. Sherlock smiled.

"It's a new day."

"Obvious," she said mockingly and was surprised by his lips turning downward.

"Do I say that a lot?"

"Yes."

He leaned forward and rested his head on his folded arms. "Mm."

Irene came around the other side of the island and threw away her apple core. Beside her, Sherlock sat up and almost reached out to her; but even with his thoughts a blur he knew that he shouldn't. He looked past her and out the window.

"Remember when I drugged you?"

Sherlock couldn't repress his smile. "The first time we met.

"You were okay, though?"

"'Okay' is my middle name."

Irene leaned against the wall and watched Sherlock stand, uneasy on his feet but still with an idle grin on his face. He walked towards her until he was standing in front of her, looking down at her. When she looked up at him, she wondered if he was going to kiss her.

"I'm not," he slurred.

"Not what?"

"Going to kiss you."

Irene leaned her head against the wall; her heartbeat felt like waves in her veins.

"And why's that? Never kissed anyone before?"

At that, Sherlock actually laughed. "Is that really what you think?"

"Prove me wrong," she whispered, and felt his hand fall onto her neck.

His touch was cool and heavy; his breath fell like snow on her forehead. Sherlock's hand moved upward until his hand was cupping the side of her face, and she leaned into to his touch. He was electric, but soft– something new.

She didn't see his other hand move, but it came up and tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear. Sherlock shook his head, smiling lopsidedly at her.

"No," he breathed into her ear; she felt his words against her neck and nearly shivered.

"Why?"

"Because you're just curious," he murmured, pulling away, "and I'm not sober."

Irene grinned at him. "Good enough reason."

"Do you kiss your clients?" he asked suddenly.

"No."

"Why?"

"Kissing," she said softly, "is too much of an emotional attachment."

Sherlock rolled his head to the side and grinned at her, leaning against the wall.

"Tell me about it." He looked down at his watch and sighed. "I should get home."

Irene saw that it was nearly one and nodded; she walked him to the door, almost sad to see him go.

"Irene?" he said, turning around when he was at the door.

She was right behind him, but he took a step forward all the same– he nearly fell, bracing his hand against the wall by her head. Irene breathed him in like air.

"Yes?"

He grinned– she felt his cheek in her hair and bit her lip. _Damn._

"Let's have dinner sometime," he slurred, his hand winding around her wrist.

"Fine."

Sherlock pulled away and left, then– just like that he was gone and Irene was alone, drowning in her thoughts and her awkwardly fast heartbeat. She felt like she had just run a mile.

Hell, so did Sherlock.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

John was asleep by the time that Sherlock came in, and by then, he was nearly sober. He stumbled into his room and kicked off his shoes and shirt, falling into a heap in his bed.

His words were still fresh on his tongue; but he was weighted by a thousand words that he didn't say and probably never would say to her.

When we awoke, he wasn't nearly as hung over as he had feared– John saw nonetheless, and almost didn't say anything. That is, until he came home for lunch to find him face down on the couch with a pillow over his head. He walked around quietly but heard Sherlock groan when he accidentally dropped a plate on the floor; the microwave beeped at about the same time and even John cringed.

"Late night?" he asked Sherlock when he wondered into the kitchen for a glass of water and some aspirin.

Sherlock shrugged and threw the pills back.

"Who were you with?" John asked, trying not to sound too interested.

"Someone."

He shot his friend a look and leaned against the counter as he ate. Sherlock looked at his food, wrinkled his nose and soon enough John heard his door close.

Sherlock's phone moaned.

_Hung-over?_

_ Not much._

_ -SH._

_ Dinner tomorrow night? _

_ There's a good Chinese place near my flat. 887 North Carryway. 7?_

_ -SH_

_ See you then._

He slid his phone shut and leaned back against his bed, his lips curling into a shy smile.


	4. Chapter 4

**a/u: i'm unsure about this chapter. but still. happy reading. **

There's something so undeserving about melting snow– when it's just liquid, but still solid enough to cake on your shoes and drive you mad. Sherlock breezed into the flat, late, and almost didn't notice John sitting by the fire with his laptop.

"Dinner?" he asked, and Sherlock nearly jumped.

"I have plans," he called from down the hall.

John opened his mouth to make a sly remark but kept it to himself. Turning back to his book, he flipped it open and looked at the words but didn't read them.

"Where to?" he asked.

Sherlock walked back into the room, his slush-molested pants and shoes gone. He finished doing his belt and then ran a hand through his hair.

"That Chinese take-in down the road," Sherlock said, grabbing his coat. "Must be off."

"Date?"

"No. Just dinner."

"With who?"

Sherlock shook his head and closed the door, pretending not to have heard John. He started humming as he walked, hands in his pockets and his eyes trained on the ground. Someone had cleared the sidewalk of the half-melted snow– all the better, because Sherlock hated the sound of it squishing under his shoes.

The warm air of the restaurant hit him full in the face, and he reached up to undo his scarf while scanning the room.

He didn't see Irene, but she saw him– she studied his back, watched his motions as he undid his coat and draped it over his arm. Very practiced; very fluent.

"Sherlock," she said, and he turned to her.

He slid in across from her, rubbing his hands together.

"Finally; we're having dinner."

Sherlock smiled a little and got a quick look at her. Irene knew that he was trying (again) to read her, and knew by the little flare in his eye that he couldn't. She had her hair tied up, but not fancily, but just enough so that it wouldn't get in the way; she wore a dress, but it was casual– it was a dark purple color, but he couldn't tell how long it was while she was sitting like she was, with her legs crossed in a lady like fashion.

"To my knees, just about," she murmured when the waiter passed.

He looked up and caught her eye_ didn't bother with a question.

"I know you're wondering how long my dress is," she said, leaning in closer. He could smell her perfume. "It's just to my knees."

"Appropriate."

"Aren't I always?"

Sherlock chuckled and leaned in also, gauging her makeup– it was light, no eye shadow, but still enough mascara to make her lashes look like angelic. Her foundation was light and simple, but still Sherlock had the sudden urge to see her without it.

"What are you looking for?" she said, laughing. "You look like a lost puppy."

"I don't understand why you wear that."

"Wear what?"

"All that makeup."

"Because it makes me look young."

"You _are_ young."

The waiter put the food on their table but Sherlock kept his gaze trained on Irene. She shook her head, glancing down at her plate.

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

Irene looked up and smiled at him. "Are you always so dick-like sober?"

Sherlock leaned back and laughed, rubbing his forehead with his eyes.

"I'm serious," Irene said, chuckling, "I preferred you wasted."

"I wasn't that drunk."

"Right," Irene said, and watched Sherlock push the food around on his plate.

While he did that she looked at him, noting that his shirt was wrinkled from wearing it all day, but his pants looked fresh. His hair was un-brushed, damp from the random bits of rain that fell this evening, and his fingers tapped out a rhythm on his fork.

"Were you at a scene today?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Cold?"

"It's December," Sherlock said.

Irene tipped her head to the side and smiled, raising an eyebrow. "Nearly Christmas."

"Correct."

"Happy Christmas."

Sherlock met her eyes, and wondered suddenly if she believed in god.

"Happy Christmas."

He wasn't hungry, but for once, he ate anyway.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Mycroft stared at the fireplace but didn't really see it. His mind was a thousand miles away. When his phone buzzed, he didn't look at it for a few moments, because he simply didn't want to move.

_We need to talk. Come by tomorrow, 2 o'clock._

_ -MH_

_ Why?  
-SH_

_ Because we need to talk._

_ -MH_

_ Fine._

_ -SH_

Surprised by the lack of argument, Mycroft leaned back into his chair and wondered if his brother were ill; maybe sleeping. Mycroft took in the late hour but couldn't picture his brother asleep.

Of course, when Sherlock got to Mycroft's house (his childhood home) he regretted the decision almost as soon as he saw him. His brother turned to him, smiling, and offered him a seat.

"What do you want?" Sherlock muttered.

"Just to chat."

"Who do you want caught, and for what?"

"Alright, then. Cut to the chase, I get it," Mycroft replied, and pulled two scarlet envelopes from his desk.

They were slim; only contained one sheet of paper, but the envelope itself was made of thick paper. What ever was in it was either very important or made to look that way. Sherlock couldn't see where the paper was inside of it– which means that it mjst be the perfect size; no folding needed. Official, maybe.

"What is that?"

Mycroft took a steadying breath. "I was invited by a colleague to a gathering of sorts; he begged me to bring two people of whom I'm close to."

"And you want me and John."

"Yes."

"No."

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft." He leaned back and crossed his arm.

"Please," Mycroft said, leaning over and planting his elbows on the desk. "I would do this for you."

"No you wouldn't. You hate gatherings."

"You're my brother."

"Biologically."

Heatedly, the elder Holmes leaned back and slid the invitations towards his brother.

"At least take them to John, then."

"Fine."

Sherlock stood, slid them into his pockets and was at the door when he heard his brother mutter something under his breath. He didn't bother to ask what it was. When the door was closed, Mycroft looked at it as if his brother would walk back in and suddenly be a small boy again– he would tower over Sherlock and still be able to make him believe that family wasn't so terrible.

_"At least act human."_

Curious, Sherlock opened one of the invitations when he slid into the cab. He didn't bother to read it, and instead gave the driver the address of an old nature preserve.

_Fancy a movie? My place._

_ Taking a walk._

_ -SH_

_ Company? _

It took a while for Sherlock to reply, because he couldn't decide. But by the time the cab pulled up along the lonely gravel road, he had his mind made up.

_Varn Nature Preserve._

_ -SH_

He took a seat on an old bench and deliberated picking up a pack of cigarettes on his way into town; sometimes the patches just weren't enough, and today felt like one of those times. Sighing, he let his head fall into his hands.

The air was warm and sticky. Humidity rolled off of the snow like waves and flowed behind his ears, saturating his skin with it's chill. He turned up his collar and waited for his company.

"Little chilly for a walk, isn't it?" Irene said when she approached him.

Sherlock didn't answer, just stood up and began walking. The trees, with the snow dripping from them, looked almost poetic, like he could snatch words right off of their drooping branches. Irene followed close behind him, the snow crunching beneath her boots.

"Nobody ever goes on walks anymore," Sherlock said, stopping after a while.

"No."

He turned to her, look at her with her hair all pinned and in place, and struggled for words.

"Why is that?"

Irene smiled. "Shouldn't you know that?"

He sighed and looked away from her, his gaze lingering on the half-frozen stream to his left.

"What's got you all in a fuss?"

"What?"

"You're scattered."

"Never."

Sherlock nearly jumped when she laid a hand on his arm. Through her glove, she felt him relax under her touch and smiled softly.

"Do you think I'm human?" he blurted.

"Well, I assume that you're not a bird."

Sherlock shook his head and turned; continued walking. For a second Irene watched him disappear into the snow-covered trees and thinks of how long his strides are, and how much ground he covers in one of them. She thinks that he must be a good runner– suddenly aches for an answer.

"What's happened?"

"My brother asked me to do something," Sherlock said slowly, picking his words like fruit from an overbearing tree, "and I refused."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want to go."

Irene leaned against a tree. "Go where?"

"'A gathering of sorts'."

"Well," Irene said slowly, looking and Sherlock look at her, "I would say that he's your brother, so you should go."

"What does that mean?" Sherlock said, his voice low. "Since we were birthed by the same women, I should go ahead and do things for him?"

"Yes. That's what family does."

Sherlock scoffed. Crossed his arms. Irene watched him, even when he adverted his gaze.

"How much of the night at the bar do you remember?" she asked suddenly.

"All of it. I'm not a forgetful person, even if drunk."

"You almost kissed me," Irene said, and swore that she small a smile on his lips.

"The key word is 'almost.'"

"Does the thought disgust you that much?" she said, joking, but Sherlock turned around with a fiery gaze.

"Why do you think that?"

Irene opened her mouth but didn't, because she felt his hand curl around her wrist. Her pulse pounded into his spider like fingers, but neither of them pulled away; as if the first one to move was breaking some kind of promise.

"You know," she breathed, "kissing is a very human thing to do."

"Obvious."

"But you're not really human, are you? Too stone. No feeling."

"I feel."

"You feel even less than me," Irene said, surprising anger bubbling in her blood. "And that's saying something."

In the end, it was Sherlock that let go (broke that promise) and let Irene stride away. Her footsteps faded away until they were nothing (he began to wonder if they ever were _something_), and he stayed rooted in the spot for a good hour before sliding his phone out into his numbs hands.

_I'll go. _

_ -SH_

_ Thank you._

_ -MH_

It wasn't just his fingers that felt numb.


	5. Chapter 5

John wasn't home when Sherlock came in– he was aware that he was cold but didn't shiver (didn't want to) and dropped the invitation on John's laptop. He was sure to find it there. With heavy steps Sherlock made his way to his bedroom. For a moment he thought about getting dinner (what day was it?) but the thought of food made him feel sick; he changed into dry clothes and collapsed onto his bed.

His blankets smelt like sweat and fading laundry detergent. He drank in the scent and began drifting into sleep; still human, after all.

When John came home, he was already irritated, and the fact that Sherlock hadn't bothered to turn the heat up didn't help. He stood in his damp jumper, fiddling with the thermostat. The flat was oddly quiet– John figured Sherlock wasn't home. That is, until he heard Sherlock's phone ringing.

The damn idiot was probably too lazy to reach over and shut it off. John let it go, but when it rang for the third time and the noise was just too much, he strode into Sherlock's bedroom with his voice already rising and swung the door open– it slammed against the wall.

"Dammit, Sherlock! I've had enough noise today. Answer your damn p–"

Sherlock jolted awake, eyes hazy from dreams and the sheets messy in his fists; he screamed, confused for a short second before realizing that it was only John.

Just John.

He sighed.

"Oh. Sorry," John said.

"Quite alright."

Sherlock reached over to his bedside table (John couldn't help but notice the lingering tremor in his hand) and opened his phone.

"It's Lestrade."

"You going to call him back, then?" John asked, leaning against the doorway.

Phone in hand, Sherlock fiddled with the keys for a moment. "I don't think I will."

"Why not?"

He shook his head, pushing the hair from his bright eyes. But when Lestrade called, again, Sherlock did pick up, even though his body ached and for once he was actually tiered.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes?"

"Where have you been? I've been calling for ages!" Lestrade snapped; Sherlock could hear the wind on the other line. Could almost feel it.

"I was sleeping."

There was a short pause. "Well, uh, we need you. I'll text you the location."

Sherlock wanted to refuse, but John gave him a look that let Sherlock know that what he really needed was something else to do other than to sit at home. He repressed a sigh and hung up.

By the time they reached the scene, it had begun to rain; Sherlock was beginning to despise the weather.

They approached the body and Sherlock put his hand over his mouth because of the stench– at his feet, the body was half decomposed and falling apart. Literally.

"Christ," John muttered.

"It was dumped here this afternoon. If there's anyone that can get anything from this body," Lestrade said, "it's you, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't bother to tell Lestrade that he really didn't have it in him tonight to deal with his, or that it was raining and he was cold, and that he wanted to sleep; in fact, he couldn't remember the last time he felt so drowsy. The wish for sleep clouded his mind. Felt like someone had stuffed cotton in his skull.

So he leaned down, not touching the body and didn't just look– he forced himself to _see._

**Mid twenties. Female. Lip ring; rebellious. Tattoos, but not personal. Artist, maybe. Found meaning in the small things. **

He gaze moved downward.

**Tight fitting clothes– not to make a lasting impression, mind you, but just one that will draw you to her. Long limbs. She looked like a dancer; just not a ballerina. She was barefoot, but the way her feet were suggested that she spent a lot of time in heels. **

** Where her skin wasn't peeling away, he could see thin scratches. She fought back, but not much. Needle marks making pathways down her arms (he felt a twitch of nostalgia) that indicated drug abuse. **

Sherlock stood, brushed himself off, and turned around.

"Once you get her back to the lab, scrape her nails. You'll find the DNA of her attacker. He'll most likely be a sex offender."

"How do you know?"

"He met her a a dirty strip club. Do the math."

"Who is she?" Lestade asked.

"Most likely a run away. Got involved with drugs, got busted, and…" he paused, because Lestrade gave him an almost pitying look, "she took off. Check missing persons."

John looked at Sherlock, watched his fingers dig into his hands behind his back. He shivered; slightly wavering in the spot.

"It's late, Lestrade," John said, stepping forward.

"Right. Thank you boys."

They turned together, and as soon as they were out of earshot John turned to Sherlock to speak, but the dark haired man did first.

"Did you get the invitation? It was on your laptop."

They slid into a cab.

"No."

"Mycroft asked us to go."

"And you agreed?"

Sherlock leaned his weary head against the window and almost sighed. "Of course."

"That's… _nice_ of you."

"Am I usually not?"

"I didn't mean it like t–"

"I'm serious, John," Sherlock said turning to him. "Am I?"

The cab hit a bump and Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the window– didn't bother to wait for John's answer because he felt it in his bones.

"… but then again, nobody can do what you do. I doubt it's easy," John finished.

"It is." The cab pulled up to their flat. Finally.

"What's got you caring about it, anyway?"

He shoved the keys into the lock and bounded up the stairs, not waiting for John, and landed on the couch. When the steps finally stopped groaning, he knew that John was back inside and was looking at him, because he felt his gaze like you feel fire that's too close.

"What were you dreaming about?"

"What?"

"Before, when I woke you."

"I don't remember." Honest.

"You were shaken."

"Just… confused. Briefly."

John looked at his friend, watched him twiddle his thumbs and knew that there was something else in that grand old head of his, but didn't know what.

So he awkwardly patted Sherlock on the table and opened the envelope, scanning it just as his friend had. He jumped when Sherlock's phone buzzed, because it was so quiet in the flat.

_the rain is pretty, isn't it?_

_ No._

_ -SH._


	6. Chapter 6

**a/u: i promise many feels in the next chapter– but i have work at 7am so i can't finish it tonight. reviews are happily accepted.  
happy reading.**

The affair at Mr. Myer's house was the first time John had seen Sherlock in a tux; and he was surprised.

It fit him nicely, but John got the impression that Sherlock hadn't worn it in ages. He fiddled with the bowtie. Bit his lip. Tapped his foot. John almost smiled; he wasn't even there yet, and he was bored with it all. A new record.

"Ready, then?"

Sherlock nodded, sighed, and together they made their way down the stairs and into the brisk night.

The main difference between Mycroft and his brother that no matter how much he would rather be at home, alone, he didn't let it show. Although the people here bored him, and the conversation was repetitive and dull, he smiled and nodded and shook hands.

Mike Myer was a fat, jolly man that reminded the elder Holmes of Santa Clause; plump red cheeks and little stumpy fingers. Mycroft nearly grimaced in his hearty handshake, (he sore a few fingers cracked) but smiled through the man's speeded words.

"That you, Mycroft, for being able to tow some people along. The more the merrier, I always say– and so do others, you know!" He laughed, then, making his way past Mycroft, who sighed and took a seat in the corner.

He was in for a long night.

As soon as he entered the over-plush living room, Sherlock knew that he wouldn't last all night (if he lasted at all) near all these people. Already his eyes were darting from face to face, soaking in their life stories and already he was heavy with unwanted knowledge. John muttered something to him when he paused in the grand doorway– probably an encouragement.

A few heads turned to look at him, and Sherlock avoided their gaze. He even avoided Mycroft's gaze, even as it lingered on his brother; he had cleaned up well, this time.

_You don't look homeless. Grand job._

_ -MH_

_ You owe me. _

_ SH_

Mycroft slipped his phone back into his pocket and watched his brother do the same as they made their way towards him. His brother radiated discomfort– everything from the way his eyes blazed to his long fingers drumming on his thigh.

"A drink?" Mycroft asked.

"Sure. I'll fetch them," John said, eager to follow in the direction of someone or another.

"I'll take a whole damn bottle," Sherlock muttered, taking a seat across from his brother.

"Cracking jokes, now? Are you feeling alright?" he said, earning an almost smile from his brother.

Sherlock leaned back and crossed his legs, resting his open palm on his knee; all long limbs and shadows when he moved, and Mycroft noticed a few people actually look over at his younger brother. His eyes moved, chilling, to Mycroft's face. He hadn't seen Mycroft look so old in a long time.

"What made you change your mind, brother?" Mycroft asked.

"About?"

"Attending tonight."

Smoothly, (as if he hadn't stayed up previous nights thinking of it) he shrugged; threw the question away as if it were an old towel. Mycroft saw the subtle change in his brother's icy eyes when he asked, but didn't push him. Tonight wasn't a good night.

Mycroft was about to speak up again when he saw a few heads turn towards the door. His eyes flickered over to where the others lingered, and found himself swallowing hard and try not to look at his brother.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, turning his head– his hair partially fell from his even part, dark curls against pale skin that brushed against his cheekbone.

And that's the first thing she really _saw_ when she walked in the door– a curiosity riddled Sherlock, with his hair falling into his face, and then swiping it back with elegant fingers in one fluid motion. Irene was reminded of the way he took off a coat and nearly smiled. When he caught sight of her he turned, maybe a bit quickly, and then turned back to his brother.

He tried to get the image of her out of his mind (a collected mess of dark waves and slender curves) and took a sip of his drink that John had delivered to him. It stung a bit going down. Sherlock was reminded of the night at the bar and almost smiled– _almost._

When she approached the table, Sherlock sensed her more than he heard of saw her. A tingling in the base of his neck– accelerated heartbeat. Felt almost like those few precious moments before an anxiety attack, where you still have a good grip and if you concentrate hard enough you can pull yourself right back out. Ground yourself.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Irene said, steady, while looking at the elder of the two brothers.

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Miss Adler."

"Dr. Watson," she said, turning, and laid a hand on the detectives shoulder. "Sherlock."

To her surprise, he didn't flinch under her touch; he had seen it coming and told himself that he wouldn't make a fool of himself, not here.

"Irene," he murmured.

They were quiet– Sherlock didn't bother to break it, too busy concentrating on the absence of her hand on his shoulder. He felt cold, suddenly, and drained his glass once Irene had made her way across the room. Though Mycroft saw the buried edge in his brother's posture, he figured that it was to do with their last encounter. Sherlock turned, acting like he was scanning the crowd, bored, when in reality his eyes lingered for a few seconds on Irene.

She didn't need heels to make her legs look miles long, but with them on, she looked almost professional. He could see the ivory of her back, because he dress scooped very low in the back– deep red against her satin like skin. If she spent more time in the sun, she might be the kind of woman to freckle. Delicate little marks down her spine and on her shoulders, and god, she would look beautiful while she slept, and he could almost see himself tracing the bone in her wrist.

Sherlock pulled himself out of his spiraling thoughts. Gripping his knee, he saw that Mycroft was deeply engaged in a conversation and John was nowhere to be found, and so he did what he does best– he ran away.

He slipped out a back door and into the dark hallway. Outside the mammoth doors, the music was hardly audible. Sherlock didn't even realize how much he hated all the noise until he was striding down the hall and outside, the air smacking him in the face. He sighed, then, grateful for it's bitter bite.

There were only two people who noticed that Sherlock had left: his brother and Irene.

Mycroft, because he could see his brother get up from the table and see him slip out the corner door.

Irene, because she couldn't tear her eyes away long enough _not _to see.

There was one person who decided to chase after him– and it wasn't his brother.

She found him on the patio, laying with his back on a cold stone bench, stargazing. Irene lingered for a moment in the doorway, watching the winter winds push the dark mess of curls around on his head. When he sighed, it startled her. She wondered what he was sighing about, whether it something big and scientific, or as little as the fact that his fingers were numb and throbbing.

When he spoke, she nearly jumped.

"Why did you follow me?"

"I was worried."

"Right."

Irene wrapped her arms around herself and made her way to the bench. She sat down by Sherlock's head, looking down at him. Their eyes met and he broke the gaze.

"You're cold," Sherlock muttered and sat up.

"Obvious," she said, mocking, but saw Sherlock nearly cringe.

"Have I upset you?"

"No."

She placed a hand on his arm, shocked to find him warm to the touch, and stood. "You'll come inside soon?"

He nodded curtly, but she couldn't see his eyes (so she didn't see that he didn't want her to go) and he didn't see hers– so he didn't see that she didn't really want to leave.


	7. Chapter 7

**a/u: this would be the final chapter, unless you guys really like the story, in which i can continue it. please let me know. reviews & stuff if you please.**

When he was able to tear himself away from company without appearing rude, Mycroft slipped out the same door that his brother had previously used to flee. The hall was dark and wide, and he could hear dulled humming coming from around the corner. He followed the tune.

Sherlock told himself that he came inside not because of Irene, but because he was cold. In reality, he was chilly. He saw Irene slip begin an ajar door and followed slowly, unsure of why exactly he was trailing her. Sighing, Irene leaned against the wall and rolled her head towards Sherlock, who stood in the doorway.

"Hi," she breathed.

"Good evening." His voice was low and careful.

She smiled. "Do you like this dress? It's my favorite."

Sherlock shuffled his feet in place. Worked his jaw. But he didn't speak, though Irene bitterly wished that he would. Her thoughts of him were rocky and uncontrolled. She swallowed them, because they were unfamiliar.

He turned on his heel, then, and brushed away. Irene watched him go, but didn't see the torn thoughts that played in his eye. His fingers tapped out melodies on his thigh as he walked. Anything to distract him that, yes, he really liked that dress, and that he could see a very faint birthmark under her jaw; and he couldn't help wondering if anyone else had ever noticed it. And Sherlock very abruptly realized that he hoped nobody else had seen it. There could be one part of Irene that nobody knew about– the ache in him shocked him. No, not the ache, but the _want._

Sherlock doesn't _want_ many things. Of course, he needs things, like substance and water, and things to keep him out of trouble (or boredom, or drugs). But Irene was different. He knew he could leave now and not talk to her again, ever again, and he would be just fine.

But you know what? He didn't _want to._

From the dark room, Irene leaned, alone, against the wall. Her thoughts tumbled like stones in a tumbler. The image of Sherlock looming in the doorway stood clear in her mind as if he was still there; she had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn't. When he stood, she saw how he leaned a little it more on the left leg than the right. She could almost see his hipbones beneath the slim fitting jacket.

Irene wondered if Sherlock knew how thin he was; how utterly dominating his eyes were at times. How much his words stung.

She heard her footsteps begun to fade and knew that it was now or never; she stepped out into the hallway.

Mycroft heard Irene's voice, and then heard Sherlock stop walking– at this he turned and joined back with the party, determined to ask his brother about it later.

"I was wrong, you know."

"About?" he said, not turning to face her.

"You."

"There's a shock."

"You do feel," she said, walking towards him.

Sherlock didn't respond, but he did turn. He didn't look at Irene, just kept his eyes level with the floor and listened to her breathe. The sound was constant and reassuring– he wasn't sure why he found it to be so.

"Don't you?" Her voice was quiet, and Sherlock reached out and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

"Why did you say I didn't?"

"Because I was upset."

"Why?"

"I don't know." And she really didn't.

"See," he said, and took a step towards her, backing her into the wall, "that's the problem with you people. You… you talk, but you don't _speak._"

His voice was deep and almost thunderous; it rumbled through Irene, and her pulse pounded against his pale hands. She could smell him, then, and looked up to his face.

"You're still curious," he noted.

"You're sober."

Sherlock smiled; just a tug of one side of his mouth, but it was a smile nonetheless. His other hand came up and graced the side of her face.

"Eyelash," he muttered.

The stray lash fell to the floor. Sherlock watched it go, a silent part of Irene that just wasn't anything anymore. Simple as that.

"Do you still not think I'm pretty?" Irene said; voice passive but with something buried beneath it.

"You're not. No, that's just not the right word," Sherlock responded, and his hand stayed right where it was on her cheek.

His finger stroked her jaw– he could feel the bone beneath her soft skin and the feel of it almost made him dizzy. She smelled soft, like fresh laundry, and it was so unexpected that Irene could feel Sherlock's heart leap when he leaned in a little closer.

_Beautiful,_ he thought– _stunning; astounding; wondrous. _

"Are you going to kiss me, Sherlock Holmes?" Irene said.

Her eyes had a deep laugh in them, and Sherlock ran a thumb across her plush lips. An eyebrow shot up– quizzical.

"Do you want me to?" he said, almost slurred, and his voice soft but dark.

"That might be something you have to deduce yourself."

When he kissed her the first time, it was just a quiet brush of the lips, and Irene intended it to be just that. But something sparked in her and she found herself looping her arms around the pale man's neck and pulling him closer until the darkness between them was nothing. He tasted like lickerish, dark and bittersweet. His tongue brushed along her bottom teeth, testing the water, and he sighed against her lips. So human.

She kissed him like she hadn't been kissed in a long time (and she hadn't) and he kissed like he hadn't spent all evening thinking about kissing her (which he had). Irene's head leaned up against the wall, and he rested his forehead against each other.

"Would that be a yes?" he whispered into her ear; his breath was hot against her neck.

Irene looped a finger around a dark curl and nodded into his breastbone, and Sherlock let his hand drop to her lower back.

Again, he thought about how she would look during the summer, and if she would have freckles, and what it would feel like to wake up next to her; all blurry eyes and messy sheets, and he would find constellations on her skin. His fingers would connect galaxies on her spine and the valley of her shoulders. Sherlock could almost feel the skin-made-atmosphere between his fingertips. Stickier than a spider's web after a fresh rain.

And, hell, he didn't want it – Sherlock felt like he very nearly needed it.


	8. Chapter 8

**a/u: reviews are always welcome. more to come. **

The first time that Sherlock had seen Irene naked was the first time they met– the last time being the last time they saw each other– or rather, the last time Sherlock saw Irene. Though, he supposed that a dead body didn't count as 'meeting'.

That night, after the party at Mike Myer's house, Irene invited Sherlock to come home with her. He didn't reject her.

In case you're wondering, which I know you are, they didn't have sex. To Irene, sex was nothing but business (and though she was good at what she did, Sherlock Holmes was not a job) and because for Sherlock, sex was boring. Many nights spent higher than a plane had given him enough experience to last a lifetime. Though, he doubts he'll ever use what he's learned.

The two of them laid in Irene's bed, which is not the bed that Sherlock had seen the first time he was here. No, that was her room for work. And, as previously stated, Sherlock was not a job. Her bedroom (the place where she slept and read and lounged) was on the top floor– ivory walls and a large window in the corner, right near the bed. It gave light from the streetlamp outside, and they didn't bother to turn on the light.

Sherlock wondered if he should kiss her again, and his heart jumped with confusion. His phone buzzed.

_Where are you?_

_ -John_

_ Out. I'll be back tomorrow. Don't worry._

_ -SH_

He then shut it off and looked at Irene, sitting on the edge of the bed and took in her appearance– she had taken off her heels, and then let her hair down. It graced the beginning of her waist, soft waves on even softer skin. Sherlock stopped wondering if he should kiss her and just did. He didn't regret it.

Irene assumed that her removing his clothes would agitate Sherlock, but it didn't, and he actually craftily undid the zipper of her dress. It fell in hushed waves to the floor. Sherlock looked at her, nothing but thin under things, and was hit with a wave of an unfamiliar emotion. His heart crept to his mouth and he reached out his hand, laying a hand against Irene's stomach.

She titled her head– he moved his hand to her side, fingers crawling over her skin, and finally she gave in and laid her hand against his bare chest. Without any fabric between them, she could feel his heartbeat on her palm. Irene stepped closer, then, and kissed him softly, kindly– unusual for her. His tongue darted inside her mouth, tasting her and deepening the kiss, and they fell to the bed.

"Irene?"

"Hmm?"

His words got hitched in his throat; Irene looked up at him, and saw what he wanted to say but didn't respond, just wrapped her hand around his wrist.

"I know."

Irene's voice was soft but it shook Sherlock to the core, and he kissed her again, hard, his fingers tangling in her hair. She wondered if he played piano; his fingers were long and graceful, and god, she loved the thought of him bent over ivory keys in the dead of night. Moonlight spilling from his fingertips and so badly she wanted to know if he played, but she didn't ask, because she was too busy kissing him.

And when they broke apart and lay side-by-side, hand intertwined, she didn't ask because the sound of him breathing was almost just as good as an answer. Steady. Easy motions (instinct) but still there was something thoughtful about it, as if every breath that left him was a quiet part of his mind. He blew it all out in a large sigh. Rolled over, and stared at Irene.

He thought more about her skin, and about summer, and Sherlock realized that he actually _felt_ something, and not just thought that he should be feeling something.

"I'm happy," he murmured.

Irene lifted her hand and laid it across his face. He closed his eyes. Her voice was a soft hum, and it vibrated him.

"Do you play the piano?"

He nodded into her palm. "Since I was seven."

"Are you good?"

Sherlock shrugged and reached out, taking a strand of her hair.

"You haven't cut it yet."

She shook her head. "You said that you liked it long."

"And you cared?"

Irene laughed, softly but with an edge. "Maybe."

"You're not pretty."

"No?"

"You're beautiful." He paused. "You're blushing."

"How can you know that? It's dark."

His fingers found her cheeks and he grinned in the darkness. "You're face is hot."

The streetlight cast shadows in the room and onto her body. It decorated her, as if she was tribal, and Sherlock saw her eyes close, and wondered if anyone had ever called her beautiful and meant it as much as he meant it.

Sherlock doesn't remember falling asleep (or even closing his eyes) but when he opens them it's light out. The sunlight is warm and lazy, falling over Irene's body like a blanket. He memorized her features, and then when he's sure he knows each of them, he memorizes them again and again until his eyes are sore and he's itching to get home. There's a message on his phone from Lestrade. Not to mention about thirty from John and his brother.

But when Irene sighs in her sleep and her fingers knit themselves within Sherlock's skin, something stirs in him and he finds himself pressing his lips to her forehead. She tastes like the air after rain. Distinct but wondrous. He looks at her again, drinking her in with his eyes, and find himself aching just to _stay_.

Her heart rate is slow– she's deeply asleep, and doesn't notice when Sherlock slips from beneath her grip; she doesn't see the look he gives her sleeping body when he leaves, and she'll never know that he was never given anyone else that look before.

It's two days before Christmas– it's not snowing anymore.

_I'll see you soon?_

_ I do hope so. _

_ -SH_

Within 56 hours, Sherlock has identified her body; Molly has already asked how he did that without looking at her face. Nobody notices that Sherlock is desperately trying to tell himself that she was already dead when she was beaten beyond recognition. He hopes that there is a god, because he's praying that she didn't feel a thing.

When Mycroft offers him a cigarette, it's a silent 'I want you to talk to me', but Sherlock can't bring himself to tell him brother everything.

He can't tell him that he thinks that he may just love Irene, or at least be very close to it; can't tell him that her skin feels like home, or that she looks best when she's sleeping, or that, god, he would throw himself in front of a bus that very moment just to being her back.

He can't tell Mycroft this, and he can't look at his brother; because there is a chance that he will just _know_ and Sherlock isn't sure he can handle anyone else knowing right now. So he smokes. The cigarette feels almost as good as Irene does against his lips, and he relishes in the bitterness of it all as it lays down beds of comfort in his lungs. It burns just a little, but he doesn't mind.

It's snowing again– he's never hated the snow or hated Christmas as much as he did right then.


	9. the finale

**a/u: last chapter. reviews are always welcome. not sure how much i'll be posting, since school will be starting soon; all the same, happy reading.**

When Sherlock finally comes back to Baker Street that night, John sees his hazy gaze and immediately takes his brothers warning into consideration. He follows him to his room and listens for sound.

He hears the bed creak and Sherlock let out a broken sigh. For a moment he lingers at the door, still pondering, but then he knocks softly on the frame. No answer.

"Sherlock?" he asks, pushing the door open a smidge.

The dark haired man was curled up in bed, in his clothes, and a pillow thrown over his head. Deflated. John plucks at a hair on his sweater and wonders if maybe he should just leave, because maybe Sherlock was actually asleep. Or overdosing. Whichever.

"Not on drugs," Sherlock suddenly says– his voice is even and cold.

"I didn–"

"Yes you did. Mycroft would have warned you after I took the smoke."

John didn't respond. The others man's words were calm, but John is sure that there is something lingering in the depth of his deep voice.

"I'm sorry," he offers.

"For what?"

"What happened."

Sherlock rolled over, then, the pillow coming off of his face as he stared at John. He laughed; but it was bitter and almost painful to hear.

"You actually think I cared?"

"I think some distant part of you cared at least a little," John says slowly, tasting each word before he lets it go. "And I don't think you know how to express it."

When Sherlock doesn't respond, just stares at the ceiling, John gets the urge to sit down and comfort his friend; though, he doesn't look like he needs it. He never does. All stone and no silk, Sherlock was a statue.

The stone man rolled over to his side again, his back to John, and put the pillow over his head. John left the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

_Not drugs._

_ John_

_ What, then?_

_ -MH_

John thought for a long moment. Chew his lip and looked towards Sherlock's room, where the light was still off and he was still not moving.

If it were anyone else, John would have said he was just sad– but this was Sherlock Holmes, and he just didn't… get sad. He was solid, unmoving and it made John uneasy to see him wordless like he just was. Usually he wasn't sleeping until he really needed it.

Or maybe it did need it.

_Human._

_John_

His brother did not respond– John did not expect him to.

Sherlock feels his vision slipping by the time he makes it home. He was sober, just drunk and dizzy from the endless walk he had taken; he felt like he must've drank up the stars, thinking that maybe they would stop him from feeling whatever it was that he felt. At this point, he isn't quite sure what's he's experiencing.

He's numb– that's the word he's looking for. Not in the physical sense (he can feel every inch of himself) but in the mental sense. His mind was blank; overworked. Sherlock couldn't wrap that vast mind around the fact that people can just _die._

It angered him that there were so many different words for the same thing: homicide, suicide, accident, genocide; they all meant one thing– death. You can be breathing steady one second and then in the blink of an eye you can just be gone. Forever. No redoes, no 'I forgot something', just fading until you're suddenly nothing. Just air and soon to be decomposition.

He sits on a bridge for a while, with his legs hanging off and feet dangling towards the Thames. If he fell, he would die. Either from the force of hitting the water (it was a long way down) or from drowning, or simply from hypothermia.

When he gets too cold to shiver, and he's left physically numb, too, he wonders back to his flat. He knows that his brother would have warned John. Sherlock makes a point to actually act like himself, but when he sees him sitting in his armchair with that look across his face (that 'this is a not good thing' look) he feels something inside him snap. He wonders if he can hear it, that invisible bone breaking, as he makes it to his room. Irene's phone is buried in his drawer– he doesn't want to see it.

He's glad he's freezing– it gives him a reason to be shaking so badly.

John is shocked, to say the least, when he sees Irene standing in front of him. She looks just as good as before (so, so good) but there's something softer about her. Maybe it's the fact that she's supposed to be dead. His first instinct is to tell Sherlock; and his second is to keep it from him in the hopes of helping him move on.

He's never seen his flat mate so… dead.

When he makes her text him, and he hears that familiar moan, he looks towards where the sounds of receding footsteps are coming from. Irene tells John not to go after him– tells herself the same thing.

She knew that getting involved with him would be a mistake. Knew that it was dangerous, and not just for her. Irene knew that he would be hurt in the end, and she did what she did anyway; because she was lonely and nobody had ever looked at her in the same way that Sherlock did. So when he turns are runs, it's for his own good that she doesn't follow.

_I'm not dead. Lets have dinner._

It takes a few hours, and when his breathing slows to a semi-normal rate, Sherlock opens the message. Stares. Very nearly cries (he feels the tears), either from relief or just from pure anger.

In that moment, he hates Irene– he hates her and her soft skin, hates her would-be-freckles, hates the way she says his name, hates the way she tastes and smells. Most of all, he hates her for dying.

Loves her for _not_ dying.

He's not sure which one he feels more– they're like drugs, making his vision cloudy and making him actually bumps into people as he walks down the street. They don't bother to tell him off. His heart is a metronome, suddenly, and his veins are the band. Blood would be the music.

Sherlock thoughts are off track and askew, and when he looks at the message he hates Irene all over again; because how could she be so casual when _she was dead._

_And left me here._

His thoughts surprise him. Warm, bubbling blood rises to his face; and for once, he doesn't take too long to think about his response.

_Don't talk to me again. _

_-SH_

Sherlock told himself that he meant it.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 

The next time they see each other, it really is by chance.

John was sick and pestering Sherlock about being too loud, and Irene was restless and in need of a walk. As luck would have it, they found each other on the same bridge when thunder began to roll across the sky, and when they looked up at the sky and back down, they caught each other's gaze.

For a moment, Sherlock was frozen– how could he not have seen her? Irene thought the same thing.

When Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, rain began to pad on the sidewalk. Lightning lit up a distant part of the sky, but all Irene could see was Sherlock as he stood, hands shoved in his pockets and his cheeks rosy form the cold. The rain collected in his curls– she turned away.

Abruptly, something shifted in Sherlock and he started running towards her. Fingers already wet from the rain, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist; his skin was cold. Irene turned.

"Thought you didn't want to talk to me?" she mused.

"You're alive," he muttered.

Rain dripped off his brow and onto his lips. Irene looked up at him, felt her pulse accelerated against his musical fingers, and reached up to lay her hand against his face.

"Always seems to end up that way."

When he kissed her, he didn't think about it, because she was warm and breathing and _alive._ She wasn't truly alive in his mind until he touched her; her skin was the key, he realized. They were both shivering when they broke apart, hair matted against their foreheads and Sherlock looked down at her, his heart racing as much as Irene's.

Irene couldn't think– the man before her filled up her brain with messes of analogies and 'what ifs' clogged her throat, so she didn't speak, either. She didn't need to.

They went to her house, her room, and laid in their underclothes, shivering even though they were dry, and traced patters in each other's skin.

Irene looked at Sherlock, felt his hand against the inside of her thigh, and watched his eyes flicker to her own. They were soft. He laid his hand flat against her skin, absorbing the warmth in his palm. Irene's had brushed back the dense curls from his forehead. He smelled like rain; and he felt like rain, too; cool and refreshing and _there._ Right within her reach.

She cupped his strong jaw in his hands and kisses him, his hand sliding up until he was pulling her closer. Sherlock looped his fingers under the band of her underwear. His fingers traced the path of her hipbone all the way down– the skin was soft and home-like. Familiar. She kissed him again, but there was something deeper in the way that Sherlock tasted, as if he was afraid that he would lose her again. Their bodied knitted together.

Together they were just a mess of cold toes and frantic kissing, hands clawing at each other's remaining clothing.

Outside, London was quiet and calm– dawn began to show it's golden fingers by the time the two of them finally fell asleep, limbs tangled Sherlock's lips pressed into Irene's hair.


End file.
